lowlight (i'm a sucker for you)
by thegaygumballmachine1
Summary: "You're a real piece of work," he says. "I bet you say that to all the girls."


**A/N;**

**1\. if aunt Joan isn't actually canon, I think it's 2queens1prince who made her named that.  
2\. I'm not sure if this is super clear here but full paragraphs in italics denote flashback.  
3\. NO GUARANTEES on a second chapter but there May be one.  
4\. for Lainey, but only she will ever know why. ;p**

**the prompt: ****Henry McCord and Elizabeth Adams DO NOT like each other, but they do like kissing each other.**

——

Elizabeth doesn't actually hate the class, and that's the worst part about it.

_RELG 3255: Ethics, Literature Religion_ is part of her gen ed requirement this year. She flipped through the course catalog until she found something she didn't gag at the thought of, and filled in the blanks herself— she expected historical reading, maybe a little philosophy. Engaging discussion with varying viewpoints, to expand her social circle and give herself a chance to learn moderation.

(That's all Joan, and while Elizabeth is all for a little social growth on her own time, that's a strong word for what she got.)

It's Wednesdays and Thursdays at two p.m., and it's a seminar setup, fifteen or so students. She doesn't mind the material itself; it's interesting enough from jump, the way storytelling shapes society. She likes the professor and she likes the work, so much so that she actually takes the time to consistently produce papers she's proud of, even when mediocrity would net her an A.

Her only standing problem is the pretty boy marine.

He's early getting in the first day — earlier than she is, even. She's usually the first to a new class and that irks her already, right along with the little line of stubble on his chin and the ROTC jacket he's sweating through in this ninety-degree heat, like he's got something to prove with it.

"Hi," he says, before she's even through the door, and that's annoying, too. "I'm Henry."

"Hi, Henry," she says, and hopes he takes the hint.

(He doesn't, of course. And he won't.

Hope, she thinks, is overrated, particularly in a situation like that.)

——

"That was fun," he says. "You made some good points."

"I'm not going out with you."

It's the third Thursday of the semester. The class is largely open debate, and he has a nasty habit of shooting her down before she can even get her point across. For every assumption she's made about him, she can see one about her: there are certain slips he makes in the way he speaks to her that paint her as a typical blonde, obstinate but easy underneath.

Her tone is light but her eyes mean business, and she watches, flatly, as easygoing slides into affront. It's almost fun, seeing him deflate.

"I wasn't asking," he says.

"You were going to."

He goes sheepish at that; his smile's a little too toothy and she sighs, cards her hand through her hair with as much indignance as she can manage on a full stomach and a 3.83 post-finals.

"I'm not in the mood," she says, simply. He interprets it three different ways in the span of five seconds and she raises a brow, watches the play of it on his face with no small sense of amusement. "See you Wednesday."

She turns on her heel and wishes him gone, but she won't be caught dead _actually_ running away and he's maybe more fit than anyone she's ever seen, so it's barely an effort for him to keep pace.

"Hey, look, Elizabeth," he says. "I know you don't like me, and that's fine, but I don't want this entire class to be a nightmare just because we can't get along."

He seems genuine enough, and she can appreciate that — like any of them, he just wants to get through this and get on with his life. She stops, turns, judges him with a forced lack of bias.

The sun's setting behind him and he looks good in the light. His jaw goes sharper and his eyes have a touch of gold in them, looking at them now: little flecks along the top of the iris, scattered like stars.

_God_, he's pretty.

"Fine," she says. It comes out choked and she coughs, avoids his gaze as she regroups. "I'll only argue with you if I actually think you're wrong, okay?"

"Fine. Thank you."

He turns to go and she forces herself to do the same, lingering only slightly on the definition in his shoulder blades.

——

"Is this seat taken?"

Henry's standing there in cargo pants and a sweatshirt, with coffee in a thermos and a brown notebook to match. She looks up slowly, and then to the desk he indicates — she isn't waiting on anyone, and there's no bag there.

"Yeah," she says. She goes back to her notes, which so far consist of little doodles in the margins, and keeps her eyes studiously away from his hair, or his muscles, or, god forbid, his lips. "Sorry about that."

_He's an even better kisser than she'd thought._

_He knows what he's doing, that much is sure. He only has to experiment with the pressure for maybe a minute before he's got her panting, and the jury's still out on how comparatively good or bad an idea this is, but as far as instant gratification is concerned, she's three for three._

_"Let me be clear," she says. "I still don't like you. You don't care about other people's opinions and your views on firearm legislation are just… disgusting, but—"_

_"But you like kissing me," he says. His hands are making their way under her shirt, and they're pleasantly cool, smoother than she'd expect. He presses his lips to her jaw, gently, and smiles against her skin. "Same here, don't worry."_

_"This doesn't change anything."_

_"Of course not."_

"Liz—"

"No," she says. "You call me Elizabeth or you don't talk to me. Go find another seat."

He's fuming, she just knows it. He's one of those types who gets what he wants by kissing a girl, and her boundaries aren't the least bit smudged after the fact. She pulls a pack of starbursts from her bag and cracks the container until she gets to a pink, unwrapping it with slow, meticulous precision.

"You're a real piece of work," he says.

"I bet you say that to all the girls, huh?"

She's not budging. She meets his eyes and sees the pieces fitting together in the lines of his face.

"Just the stubborn ones," he says, and if he were anyone else, she'd have cracked a smile.

——

They can't seem to stop.

"I was right about Stevens," he says, and his breath is hot on her midriff, the muscles there tightening under it even as she has to roll her eyes. His kisses move with purpose and his hand drags her panties down, just fast enough that the edges of her anger start to fade. Her hold on his hair tightens and he chuckles, swirls his tongue in the crease of her thigh.

"No," she breathes, "you weren't."

She thinks he might give up — she knows how he gets when he's like this, when he can see how much she wants him. He's going to push her until she physically can't take it and she needs that more than anything after the week she's had.

"He said—"

"Shut up."

He licks one broad stripe across her and she gasps, lets out a long, shaky breath that stretches into a moan at the very end. He's got his technique down to the letter and little flashes of heat hit all across her body when he takes her clit between his lips and sucks, _hard_.

"You know it, that's why," he pulls back to say, and she could kill him.

"Sex now, fight later."

"You got it, babe."

——

It's a basic trolley problem today. Two tracks, five men on one and a single man on the other. She's seen it hundreds of times and her answer is always the same, no matter the qualifiers put to the scenario.

She's tapping her pencil and waiting on opening remarks — she's never the first to speak. She waits to take the temperature of the discussion first, to grade her responses in volatility and controversy before she says them aloud.

(She learned that from Joan, too. And a couple times in high school where she almost got punched out in the locker room.)

"It depends on who the one is," says Henry. "If it's a murderer, sure, but if it's a doctor and the five are construction workers, shouldn't you save him?"

His voice is rougher than it usually is, but she only wonders at it for a scant second. The underlying theme of the argument gets to her, and she can feel the familiar frustration building in her back, tension cording up prematurely.

"Human life isn't devalued by a certain profession," she says. "That's not our job to decide."

That's the war in him, she thinks. He's been made to calculate life before. This is all based in real experience for him and it makes her sick to think about.

He turns — she can see the gears working in his head and braces for something scathingly critical, something about weighing emotion and compassion against logic.

"You're right," he says instead, and she has to blink three times before she can comprehend it.

"What?"

"You're right. Unless the one has the ability and the current position to save more than five lives, he should die."

She spends more time considering that than the class can afford, and they're moving on without her but she's stuck staring at the back of Henry's head for at least half an hour, shocked out of words.

That's thoughtful, and intelligent, measured in a way she didn't think he could even _be_. This is territory she can't begin to comprehend and she's left reeling, a little lost.

He slips her a pink starburst on the way out. There's a note attached to it, folded up tiny.

_I was wrong about you._


End file.
